


three cities

by redbrunja



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Getting Together, Porn with Feelings, fashion - Freeform, spijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8888014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: In Vienna, Gaby played Solo’s wife.





	1. Vienna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barcardivodka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/gifts).



_ Vienna _

_ December 1963 _

 

In Vienna, Gaby played Solo’s wife. 

They shared a luxurious hotel suite on the top floor of the  _ Hotel Grand _ . Solo whisked Gaby around the city in the evenings, catching the attention of everyone with eyes and crossing paths with the mark, Maresi Frank.

Illya worked as a bellhop, and after five days, had every single room of the hotel bugged.

In the grey light just before dawn, after hours of listening to recordings, he jumped from the roof to the balcony of Solo and Gaby’s room, barely two meters down. He landed soundlessly. When he tried the door, he found it unlocked. He slipped inside.

When he had intelligence for Gaby and Solo, procedure was for him to slip a note under their room service dishes. He not supposed to make connect for a simple information exchange. 

That he was doing so had nothing to do with the fact that the only thing his bugs had recorded in this hotel suite last night was loud music and the sound of laughter. Nothing to do with having to watch Solo tuck Gaby against his side, the way he’d casually brush kisses along her cheekbone, the back of her hand. Nothing to do with the matching gold rings they wore.

Illya was - prepared - when he stepped into the suite. He didn’t let himself name what he was prepared for. 

It wasn’t what met his eyes.

Gaby was curled in a ball on the couch. At one point, she’d had a blanket, but it had slipped off, leaving her to wrap her arms around herself, knees tucked tight to her chest. Her bare feet looked so small and delicate, against the upholstery of the couch.

Illya raised his eyes, looked across the room into the bedroom where Solo sprawled across the bed, his head resting gently on a feather pillow, so many layers of duvets piled on top of him that all Illya could see was tousled black curls and a slice of his smug, self-satisfied, sleeping face.

Illya stalked forward, grabbing the champagne bucket as he went. The empty bottle was on the coffee table next to Gaby, but the bucket itself still held a slush of water and melting ice.

Solo heard him coming, had enough time to jerk upright right as Illya flung the contents of the champagne bucket at him, hitting him full in the face. 

Illya threw the champagne bucket as well. Illya didn’t aim for Solo’s head, so the metal bucket bounced off the headboard with a clang.

Behind him, Gaby jerked awake and started swearing.

“ _ Why is Gaby sleeping in the cold?” _ Illya snarled.

“Good morning, Peril,” Solo said drolly, picking a piece of ice out of the deep v of his pajama top and flicking it away.

“Well?” Illya demanded.

“Illya?” Gaby asked. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “Did something happen?”

He clenched his shaking fingers into fists, torn between demanding an answer from Solo and answering Gaby.

“Illya?” she repeated.

“Ms. Frank will be attending the Christmas markets today,” he said, still glaring at Solo.

“I know,” said Gaby, at his back. “She invited me last night.”

“I  _ generously _ offered to keep Gaby warm,” Solo purred, caressing the pillow next to him, “but she  _ cruelly _ spurned my offer.”

Illya took a threatening step forward.

Gaby scoffed in absolute disgust.

“I want a shower,” she declared, dropping the blanket and padding to the bathroom in her bare feet and stripped pajamas. “If you two could manage to be useful for five minutes, Solo, I want sausages for breakfast. Illya - if you could refrain from killing my ‘husband’ and find me something to wear-”

She closed the door before she finished her sentence.

“I married  _ such _ a demanding woman,” Solo said, shaking his head sadly. “ _ What  _ a pity.”

Illya turned to the closet and Gaby’s wardrobe before he disobeyed her and tossed Solo off the hotel balcony.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Illya finally finished unpacking all twenty pieces of a Argentinian heiress’ luggage to her specifications and returned to the lobby in time to see Gaby return to the hotel.

She stepped inside with snow dusting her dark hair, melting to diamond-bright pricks of water for one instant in the heat of the room. Her cheeks were pink with cold. She was wrapped in a tawny fox-fur coat, her eyes and hair looking impossibly dark in contrast. Several shopping bags dangled from her hand. 

Behind her, Solo strolled in arm and arm with Maresi Frank, both of them laughing.

Gaby headed straight toward Illya.

“Excuse me,” she said in German. “Would you mind helping me carry this to my room?” 

“Of course,” he said, ducking his head, taking the bags from her.

“Darling, you can keep yourself entertained without me for a few moments?” Gaby called over her shoulder in English.

“Of course, dear,” Solo answered, settling Ms. Frank into a chair next to the fire, his hands lingering on the woman, the mark unabashedly leaning into his touch.

Illya felt the insult to Gaby like a slap across the face. 

The too-small jacket he wore felt like a straight-jacket - he wanted to stride over there and shake Solo,  _ make _ him understand that he was publicly shaming the woman who - to everyone’s eyes - was his  _ wife _ . Illya hated the matching gold rings Gaby and Solo wore, but he hated this even more, watching Solo be careless with Gaby, in public and private both.

Gaby cleared her throat and he followed her into the elevator.

He trailed at her heels as she entered the hotel room, tossed her coat carelessly over the back of the couch.

Illya forgot to set down the bags, struck by the sight of her. 

He’d chosen Gaby’s outfit this morning but had left before the shower had finished running. He’d spent the day thinking about her dressing in the things he’d chosen - Gaby slipping on the silky, black undergarments, smoothing her nylons over her legs, tugging them straight. Finally slipping into the bright gold dress - long sleeves and sinfully short skirt. 

With those thoughts had threatened his composure, he’d told himself that Gaby had likely ignored his choice for her. Thus, he found himself utterly unprepared for seeing her in his favorite frock of this mission, bright and mod and utterly gorgeous.

He lifted his eyes to Gaby’s. She was smirking at him. She toed off her pumps, settled herself on the bed. Illya looked at her bare feet, realized - 

“Your stockings- you must be-” 

“Very cold,” she agree and spread her legs.

She wasn’t wearing any underthings.

The bags slipped from Illya’s fingers, falling to the floor with a faint thump.

He looked at the smooth, strong length of her legs, dark curls and pink flesh at the apex of her thighs.

He crossed the room, knelt down at her feet. He reached for her, and his too-snug black jacket tugged at his shoulders. He wrenched it off with a displeased sound and Gaby laughed, carding her hand through his hair.

Illya forced himself gather the shreds of his self-control. They had only been intimate a handful of times. He didn’t dare disappoint. He knew this didn’t mean to Gaby what it did to him but he hoped – if he performed exceptionally, she might–

He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his shirt sleeves.

He pressed a kiss against her knee, another, higher. He stroked her skin as he draped one of her legs over his shoulder. Bare legs in winter - her skin was the same temperature as his hands. But when he licked into her - she was so hot against his mouth - slick and salt-sweet and she tugged on his hair and moaned, lifting her hips.

He sucked on her clit and she jolted, boxing his ears with her thighs as she gasped.

She twisted, clearly seeking her pleasure but shifting her cunt away from his mouth as she moved.

Illya shifted his hold on her, opening her legs, pinning her thighs to the bed. Gaby was supple enough that her knees touched the bedspread, strong enough that when he licked up the length of her, took her clit between his lips again, he felt the effort of holding her spread open in his shoulders, his arms. His fingers pressed into her skin hard enough to leave bruises.

He pulled back, a selfish indulgence but he needed a second - just a second - for the sight of her to sear into his memory, Gaby clutching the covers, hair tangled around her face, his big, rough hands on her thighs and her cunt plump and slick.

“Bastard,” she snapped, lifting her head to glare at him. “Illya, stop teasing me.”

He bent his head again, fucked his tongue into her, didn’t stop until he’d drawn an orgasm out of her, felt her quake and clench against his mouth.

When she was finished, he released her reluctantly, pressed his forehead against the mattress and panted, dizzy. Illya was achingly hard in his trousers.

Gaby slipped off the end of the bed, standing next to him. Her hair fell about her shoulders in a glorious tangle of loose curls. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth bitten red.

He couldn’t help but reach for her again. He tugged her skirt down, smoothed it, the metallic fabric feeling like sandpaper after the softness of her skin. His hands reached around to cup her rear. He wanted to bury his face back between her thighs, give her another orgasm, and another, until his jaw ached and his tongue was numb and Gaby wanted to keep him forever.

“You should return to the lobby,” he forced himself to say. “Before-”

“Oh,” Gaby said on an exhale. She sounded hurt.

“You don’t want-” she knelt down next to him, cupped him through his trousers.

Illya jerked his hips forward, desperate for her touch. His hand cupped the back of her neck, his mouth pressed against her crown. He breathed harshly. Her clever fingers had his trousers unfastened in a heartbeat, and then he was groaning as she took him in hand, gave his cock a long stroke that had white sparks bursting across his eyes.

“- your cover,” he said lamely. “I don’t want-”

Gaby pulled away, searched his face. She traced his bottom lip with her thumb, wiping her own slick away. He turned his head, sucked her thumb into his mouth, desperate for every taste of her he could get. Her other hand was still wrapped around his cock, the pads of her fingers slowly, slowly, tracing the underside.

“I told Solo he should find somewhere else to sleep tonight,” she said. “If you wanted to stay…”

For a minute he didn’t comprehend; and then he did, and it was like all the breath had been knocked out of him. The chance to remain here, kneeling next to her while she touched him like this? An entire night, to touch and kiss her? To move inside her and hear her sounds of pleasure? An incomparable, impossible gift.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’d like that.”


	2. London

_London_

_February, 1964_

 

At 1600 hours on a Tuesday, Illya was given instructions to return to London.

Illya’s trip to Moscow had been repeatedly extended. He had returned to the city of his birth in the first days of January for what had been called a debrief in the original request. He understood the true purpose of this visit; he must demonstrate that he had not become softened by his time with U.N.C.L.E. That he was still a loyal son of Mother Russia.

Physical testing, psychological evaluations, hours reviewing the missions he had worked on with U.N.C.L.E., his interviewers trying to squeeze some extra intelligence out of him that he had held back in his reports, prove that his loyalties had shifted.

He had given them no cause for doubt. He had buried his thoughts of his team - his love for Gaby, his camaraderie with Solo, his respect for Waverly’s leadership - and refused to think of it.

His superiors never asked if he woke in the night reaching for a woman who was not there. There was nothing unusual in an officer of the KGB slowing his pace as he walked past the Bolshoi theater, his gaze following a small, dark haired dancer as she gracefully alighted down the steps and into a waiting car. If Illya turned his head quickly on public buses at the sound of a woman’s teasing laugh - no need to explain that for one moment he had thought Gaby was next to him, poking fun at his stern, Soviet ways.

No lies were required.

He was told to leave Moscow at the end of the work day, when the streets had been dark for hours. He was not given a flight time, instructions of when he was expected in London. He understood that this was only the latest test. It might not even be the last.

He finished the report he was currently preparing, gave it the shift officer to file. Only then did he pick up the telephone, make inquiries about a flight to Britian. There was one that left in an hour and a half - he could make it if he hurried.

“Tch,” he said into the receiver, “and tomorrow?”

He booked the second fight leaving Moscow the next morning and measured his steps as he walked back to his flat, careful that his body betrayed no sense of anticipation.

He didn’t pack; he didn’t sleep.

He lay down on his bed, wondering if he would receive a midnight call, requiring his presence in Moscow for another day, another week, another month.

3 a.m. and if he’d left on the first possible flight, he could be in Gaby’s apartment right now.

Illya exhaled wearily and lets himself indulge in a fantasy. He’s just slipping into Gaby’s flat. In his imagination, he steps quietly into her bedroom. She roused, recognized him. She breathed his name. He crawled into bed with next to her, kisses her. He relearns her body with his mouth, with his hands.

Illya spilled into his cupped palm, imagining Gaby’s hands in his hair as he laved her nipples with his tongue.

He packed in the early light of dawn, took a taxi to the airport. He forced himself to anticipate a summons to return to the Lubyanka the entire morning, even as he waited to board, even as the plane rose in the air.

Illya's papers said that he was a low-level diplomatic attaché to the Soviet Embassy in London. British Customs couldn't search him, or officially detain him, but they could and did ask him to step into a tiny office when he disembarked.

 They pretended that his papwerwork had been mislaid while a self-important Customs officer who had read too many Ian Fleming novels served him weak tea and tried to extract information via the medium of small talk.

Illya didn't drink the tea or respond to the man's comments about the weather. He crossed his arms, his drumming the fingers against his right hand against the bicep of his left arm.

After several hours had been wasted, Illya was hailing a taxi, a light, misty rain clinging to his jacket.

He had the taxi take him into town, and then walked to the tube station. It was only then, going through the slow, repetitive steps to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, that Illya let himself anticipate Gaby’s presence. 

He tried to think of something clever or romantic to say when he saw her again, but he his mind was a blank hum of anticipation that prevented him from come upon anything worthy of Gaby.

When he finally reached H.Q., made his way to where Gaby and Solo sat, neither one was there.

Somehow - impossibly - he had failed to consider the incredibly likely event that Gaby wouldn’t be waiting for him here.

She’d been at her desk recently - there was a cold cup of coffee on her desk, a pale pink lip print from her lipstick on the rim. Solo’s desk was immaculately ordered, which meant he likely hadn’t been at it recently. When Solo was at his desk, he liked to clutter it up with tchotchkes from other people’s desks and toss folders across the surface, as if he could barely be bothered to read his briefings.

Illya was had his fingers resting on the handle of Gaby’s coffee cup, staring into the half-full liquid like he could divine her location, when Waverly exited his office, and inflicted more small talk on him.

Illya’s trip had been fine. He hadn’t noticed anything worth commenting on about the weather. No he was not looking for anyone in paticular, merely reporting in. ….yes, he would take the afternoon off, report in at 9:00 a.m. the following morning.

Illya clenched his case so hard the handle was biting into his palm as he descending the back stairs.

He should’ve left by the main exit but it wasn’t unreasonable for him to pass through the garage, step back out onto the street by the east door.

Of course, Gaby was in the garage.

She was standing in front of a car, the hood up, discussing something with the head mechanic.

Illya had half a second to curse his own stupidity for not coming here first, before his entire attention was taken up by Gaby. She looked so similar to when he’d first seen her in East Berlin, her hair held back by a scarf, clad in blue overalls that did nothing to hide how beautiful she was.

She gestured to the engine’s inner workings, and the chef mechanic, Mandelbaum, leaned over, following the path of her hand. He braced his hand on the hood over his head, craning his head, and Illya could see the tattooed numbers on his forearm.

Before Illya had left, Gaby had expressed her unease with Mandelbaum - her respect for his mechanical genius, the mutual wariness between a concentration camp survivor and the daughter of a high ranking nazi.

It appeared that in his time away Gaby’s brilliance had warmed Mandelbaum’s opinion of her. He said something that had her laughing.

That was enough, that image of Gaby happy, fingers black with grease, working at something she enjoyed. That would keep him until tomorrow.

Illya stepped back and Gaby looked up, saw him.

She stared, lips slightly parted. She inhaled deeply, and then her smile returned. Mandelbaum patted her on the shoulder. Gaby stepped away from him, towards Illya, tossing a wave over her shoulder.

She wiped her hands with a rag as she crossed the garage and then, without a word, tucked her hand into the crook of Illya’s elbow, the same arm with which he still held his case, and tugged him towards the exit.

 

* * *

  


Gaby kissed the join of his neck, moved lower, kissed his right pectoral, and then continued, tracing his stomach with the tip of her tongue, her mouth hot and leaving cool paths that made Illya shiver.

They’d gone to Gaby’s flat, headed straight to her bedroom. He was naked, now, his back to her wrought iron headboard. She’d unfastened the scarf in her hair and used it to tie his wrists to the top rail, his elbows pointing up, his body pulled taut for her gaze, her touch, her intentions.

The tips of her hair trailed along the top of his hips, his thighs, as she brushed her lips over the head of his cock, slicking her lips with his precome.

Illya threw back his head, tugged at the silk around his wrists - silky and soft and so strong, so like Gaby.

“This was not–” he panted. “I wanted–” he lost his breath as she took the tips of his cock in her mouth, suckled gently, one hand holding him steady.

“Oh?” Gaby asked. “You didn’t want this?”

And he had, of course he had, but more than that, he’d wanted to bury his face between her thighs, wanted to exist in that sphere were the only thing of importance was Gaby, wanted-

“Keep you safe,” he gasped out, the deeper truth. He had hid her from his superiors in Moscow, tried to hide his affection from Waverly as well, tried-

Gaby straightened, her knees tucked against his thighs. She pressed herself against him, chest to chest, kissed him. He could taste the salt of his own arousal in her mouth.

Her clever hand worked between them, opening herself up, getting aligned, so that she could drag her clit, her cunt, along the underside of his cock. His erection was pressed against his belly, Gaby using it, using him, her pussy growing hotter and wetter each time she stroked herself against his length.

“Oh, Illya,” she said, and she sounded fond and angry at once. She rocked her hips, and Illya watched pleasure crossing her face in waves. His balls were drawn tight against his body, his feet braced against the bed. He would not, would _not_ come before Gaby.

“My soldier,” Gaby breathed and Illya’s hips hitched upward. Two words, and she straightened the the tangled, barbed wire of his loyalties. Gaby’s. He was Gaby’s.

Gaby lifted herself just enough and sank down on him in one smooth motion, her hands at his shoulders. She gasped as he bottomed out, adjusting to his girth, the stretch of him inside her.

“You shouldn’t - shouldn’t go so far away, then,” she instructed, shifting her hips, slow, deep circles that her breath coming faster and faster. Illya tugged at his bonds again, desperately wanting to touch her, to help her find her pleasure. She was so slick and hot around him. The only thing he could do was buck his hips up, hitting that spot inside her that had her crying out.

“Next time I won’t let you, I’ll keep you close, so close,” she cried out, raking her nails across his shoulders as she came. He was barely a heartbeat behind, spilling into her with a hoarse shout.


	3. Chapter 3

_Rome_

_May, 1964_

 

In a rare occurance, their latest mission in Algeries had wrapped up neatly and ahead of schedule.

They had a week before they were expected back in London. Solo followed a lovely stewardess to Buenos Aires, and Gaby decided that she wanted to go to Rome again, be a tourist in truth. Illya followed her.

Their first evening in Italy, they retraced their steps from almost a year again.

Illya had no words for the emotions that filled him, this sweet deja vu, this inverse nostalgia. He’d never found himself in the same place a second time, his life sweeter and richer than when he was there the first.

Gaby was her own woman, her fingers were bare, but she smiled at him over dinner and tucked her hand eagerly into the crook of his arm when they rose.

They strolled along the cobblestone streets, returned to the Spanish steps.

“Such impressive Russian construction,” Gaby teased, taking one dramatically heavy step down and then pinching his side when he frowned at her.

Next to the _Fontana della Barcaccia_ a young woman was busking, singing a love song in a lilting Italian. Illya tossed her some money, but neither he nor Gaby felt like lingering.

Gaby lead him along a side street and then turned into an empty alley, someone’s forgotten washing hanging above them and all the shutters closed.

She turned to him, raising her hands up, and in one breathless moment, he had her in his arms, her mouth fused to his.

He blindly took a step and a half forward, pressed her back against the alley wall, her legs wrapped around his waist. It was tawdry, to take a woman like this, in so public a place but that thought did nothing to calm him. If anything, it made his blood run hotter.

He shouldn’t kiss her, shouldn’t let the wall and his body weight pin her in place, so that his hands were free to roam up the length of her thighs, cup her bottom, his palm catching on the silk of her underthings.

"This is foolish," he breathed into her mouth.  He could taste the wine she had with dinner. He had no such excuse; he'd abstained. He was drunk on the lambent dark of her eyes, the fall of her hair, the scent of her skin.

"Do you want to stop?" she asked, nipped at his bottom lip.

No. Of course not. Never.  
  
He hooked his fingers in her panties, yanked. A snap, and she was bare, he could press his fingers against where she was slick, hot and wet and ready for him.

Gaby unfastened his trousers in a few deft moves, urging him on, her blocky heels digging into his back as he lined himself up, thrust into her.

Her head fell back on a moan and then she was laughing, this sweet, glorious sound, Illya could hear her joy, feel it too, at the place where they were joined, in the clench of her body around his. Gaby cupped his face in her hand, urged him on, demanding and praising in equal turns, the motions of their bodies perfect and primal as Illya gave her everything she asked for, everything he had, everything.


End file.
